Post by LACKLAN on Aug 9, 2018 20:22:15 GMT -5
The dinner table within the main dining hall of Lacklan Manor is as unnecessarily opulent as one might think. Hand crafted from the hardest mahogany by masters and stained a purple so deep as to almost be black, it spans a full 20 feet long, is shined to a brilliant finish, and has diamond-encrusted glass set at regular intervals. Matching chairs sit at its length, though only the two at the opposite ends are currently filled. The table itself, lined with a brilliantly red tablecloth, is equipped with numerous plates, the finest china, each holding some sort of Cajun dish, each recipe fancier than the next. The chefs of Chez Jean-Paul were always delighted when their present master had a special guest over, always shining at the opportunity to show their culinary skills, this time around with a dazzling array of fresh shellfish caught that morning.
Sitting at one end of the table was that master, the Queen of Red herself, Le Bord de Dieu, the blade and edge of God, though those intimate with her knew her as Aveline Lacklan. She was dressed to match the table, in a painfully bright red dress filled with frills and lace, and what seemed to be an entire garden’s worth of roses. Her bright white hair, freshly bleached by the way it stood out against the softly-lit room, was pulled into a series of elaborate braids, the tapestry of which became dizzying to the eye, before brought into one large cord that hung down her shoulder and to her chest. A crown of sparkling emeralds and firedrops was fitted into her hair snuggly, the gems’ cleavage making up for the lack of her own in the dress that rose up to her chin, covering every inch, and her dark green eyes seemed as haunted and wild as ever. A goblet, crystal by the sound it had make when clinked in toast with her guest’s earlier, was filled with a wine whose color did battle with both her dress AND the tablecloth.
“And then she-”
The Queen of Red could not help by laugh as Gabriel Baal regaled her with humorous stories and anecdotes from his travels. The two had shared much throughout the day, and she truly hoped that he had enjoyed his time. No doubt he, along with most everyone within the UGWC, had assumed that the Demon Child’s “Lacklanland” was but the fancy of a noted liar, but from the moment he stepped onto the chartered plane, she was sure his opinion would change. Chartered flight, including a personal assistant for the day, to the waiting limo at Bangor International. Limo ride through the border check and wall at the compound’s lands. Limo ride through the beautiful blueberry fields as the personal assistant gave him a brief overview of the history of “Lacklanland,” from the Manor’s founding two generations ago to the establishment of the Path of the Light Church to its current leader. Limo ride through the brick and mortar dwellings of many who came to follow the Path, through Selena’s Square, up to the side of the Manor itself. Out the door and onto a red carpet and the sound of a marching band playing the “national anthem” of the community, “O Lacklanland,” and the Queen herself, surrounded by dignitaries and guards.
“...and then Holden…”
The Queen had enjoyed that look of bewilderment on the Doctor’s face when the tour began, as it was the same for everyone, but she was also impressed by how quickly it disappeared. He was smart. VERY smart. And she was pretty sure that he could look at a face and know almost every secret about that person with that single calculating glance. She had many opportunities to observe him as they walked throughout the Manor, arm in arm, as was their custom and she noticed that he took particular interest in how important wrestling was both to the community and the Church, even outright delighting in how most civil matters were decided by wrestling match. She noticed that he also took interest in the various busts of her late husband, the founder of the Church, but she was not surprised by that in the least; a psychiatrist would naturally be drawn to a psychologist.
“TEA KETTLE!”
The Queen laughed uproariously, though she hadn’t understood a word of whatever the doctor had just said. That British accent was even harder to understand than the Mainite one she had been dealing with since meeting her husband. And at least his was authentic and not affected like the one she was used to hearing. She took a moment to look at the doctor as he laughed at his own quips and took a drink of his wine. He was handsome, if you were into that sort of thing, and the right height, and older than her, which was always prefered. But not muscular enough for her tastes. Though, he DID look quite sharp in his grey suit, and she was especially thankful for such a wonderful tie; so many people forgot the important things these days.
“Tell me about Jet.”
She neither asked nor demanded, instead doing both at the same time, and she could see his eyes darken immediately. They had spoken about strategy earlier in the day, had “talked shop” when she was showing him the importance of wrestling in everyday life within the compound, but this was the REAL strategy: Getting into the heads of Somers and the Vaughn girl.
“Betrayer of Hope.”
Three words as he took another drink from his glass. A single title, but a world of information. He had read his Jordan. She was pleased.
“Threw away everything we had built because of a momentary desire to be the ‘good guy.’ Foolish. And now he pays for for.”
The Queen found herself nodding at him.
“I know well what it is like to have someone take everything you love and believe in, something they themselves loved and believed it, and throw it in the trash for a fleeting feeling of false righteousness.”
They had spoken of her wretched step-daughter earlier in the meal. Baal had professed to paying little attention to “the vlogger,” but the Queen thought differently; no one could avoid Sarah’s annoying brilliance, not even those who tried to keep themselves removed from the goings-on of the outside world. If she were to hazard a guess, it would be that Baal filed away everything in that brilliant head of his and brought it forth when it suited him, and perhaps for reasons no one would quite understand at first.
“He joined with Eden and Killian because of all the new talent in the business, myself included, but he betrayed us when it mattered most. And now he will pay for everyone he hurt. You understand how that is.”
She gave him a small nod. They had played a small game of “the worst thing I have ever done to someone,” and she thought that setting the Burning Man on fire when her ex-boyfriend was in it would win the day, but he had surprised her with stories of paralytic injections and abductions. But in the world of “worst thing DONE to ME,” she clearly won with the whole “being thrown into a psychiatric ward by a jealous teenager” thing. Even Baal had to toast to that.
“You do not have many friends.”
Not a question, of course. Anyone who had done any research into the UGWC had seen Baal go through partnerships and teams with little regard for lasting amity. And while his relationship with Eden, as convoluted as THAT was, seemed to be genuine at times, there did not seem to be many more.
“No. Neither do you.”
She could see his eyes gleam as he said that. Oh, the doctor. Oh, the psychiatrist. Would he ask about her mother next? Or if her husband was stuffed and propped somewhere? Her propensity for turning off everyone around her that didn’t see her as the Messiah’s wife was well known, after all.”
“No. I do not.”
She glanced over to the side of the room where the string quartet was playing softly.
“Do you dance?”
“Splendidly.”
Servants appeared from their hiding places against the walls to pull out their chairs and, before they knew it, the two were standing in an open space as the quartet played a somewhat uptempo tune. The Queen gave a deep curtsy and the doctor replied with his own bow. As their hands met, left in right as Baal’s other hand lightly rested on her hip, the Queen could not help by smile up at him. He WAS the right height. And he WAS pretty.
“Please,” she said with mirth in her voice, “allow me-”
“-to introduce myself?” he cut in with a wry grin. The Queen’s eyes shined as she smirked and gave a small shake of her head.
“Please, allow me to introduce who I may be.”
His eyebrow rose in a quizzical response and she nearly giggled.
“A friend.”
The music began in earnest.
“Now, do be a dear and mind where you hands stray. I would hate for Redmaine to tear them off.”
Baal could see the masked man in the corner, the eyes above his add mask locked on them, and he could only laugh as they fell into the comfortable motions of 1-2-3 1-2-3.
Hello, dear children.
When speaking of Jet Somers, the Good Doctor Baal spoke of an interesting subject: Betrayal. The Word of the One Lord God is rife with instances of betrayal, from Judas betraying his heart and sending Jesus away, only to himself be betrayed when he tried to atone for his sins, to the mark of Cain himself, we are treated with examples of how evil infects us with the desire to betray our brethren, and of the ills and curse that befall us when we lose faith and give in to that desire. But I do not need to seek out the Word to find betrayal in my own life; indeed, I have but to look across the ring this week and see two people who are so epitomized by betrayal that they might as well wear a B of scarlet across their heads.
Jet Somers is a man whose betrayal knows little bounds. The Court of Owls was formed so that rule could rise from chaos, and while I have spoken before about the flaws of the Court of Owls, about how they mistakenly dismissed the need for a foundation upon which to stand, their purpose was just. I personally cannot speak for Mister King, as I have only known him as the frail shell he is now, but I know for certain, and without reservation, that the Good Doctor and Miss Morgan are upstanding citizens of God, a man and woman who expel virtue with every breath. And to see them turned on by Somers, to see them be the Abel to his Cain, was to have my heart broken. Indeed, Somers’ betrayal of the Court, that act of defiance and insult to God and His wishes as to seem a modern day Pharisee, was untoward, unnecessary, and wholly unexpected.
But Somers’ acts of betrayal began long before he so mercilessly crushed the hearts and hopes of the gentle and kind Baal and Eden. Why, even his greatest accomplishment, that of being a seven-time Co Op champion, shows his propensity for betrayal! Seven championship reigns, more so than any other person within the UGWC, yet it is with five different partners! Five! Outside of the man who currently carries my Chaos Championship, Somers has been unable to hold onto a partner, has been unable to keep the trust of any man or woman for more than a few weeks. Why, even his very first partner, the man who would someday become our esteemed Creative Director, refused to team with him any further than their championship victory. He refused! The man who puts faith in a fedora to book matches REFUSED to work with the SNAKE that is Jet Somers!
If I were the Vaughn girl, I would be terrified of being his next victim of betrayal! After all, it was not all that long ago that Somers covered her face with ink, forcing her to the doctor’s office, no doubt panic-stricken with the thought of going blind. He had no need of causing such damage, no need of setting forth the set of actions which would lead to the Vaughn girl needing to have her face scrubbed to the point of pain for six days straight, other than his incessant need to betray nature and hope. And because of that incessant need, that COMPULSION he has, he will indeed betray her. Just like he so recently betrayed the Good Doctor at WrestleStock. Just as he betrayed the Innocent Eden last week by taking a nap on the outside of the ring as she was assaulted by my lovely and obedient daughters.
But then again, I suppose that Somers himself should be worried about betrayal. After all, he will be sharing a corner with a girl who, for all outward appearances, is kind and just, a sweet thing of golden hair, but I know of her insides, I know of her treachery. I know of her betrayal.
Richard Vaughn was a penitent man who wanted nothing but the best for his daughter. He raised her with the Word of the Lord as sustenance, more than enough for any man or woman of good nature. He raised her with love in his heart, the Word on his lips, and the Lord’s love of discipline and punishment in his hands. Did the Vaughn girl LOVE her father for this? Did she APPRECIATE her father for this? Did she MIND her father, as the Commandments ask of us?
No!
No matter what LIE you wish to believe on social media, no matter HOW many shoddy t-shirts the child sells, the TRUTH of the matter is that Angie BETRAYED her dear, doting father by doing EXACTLY what he demanded she NOT do!
Oh! The pain his heart must have had! Oh! The way his spirit must have wept. Oh! How even the angels no doubt showered the ground with their tears as Angie STOLE AWAY into the night, leaving her poor suffering parents with not even a HINT of a note of explanation to live and “train” with some gluttonous bimbo. Oh! The SHAME of her Godly father as his beautiful, blue-eyed daughter, who he had raised with compassion and understanding, and NEVER a single cross word, LEAPT...DIVED...HEAD FIRST into a bevy of sinful lesbians and miscreants.
Truly, Angie Vaughn has embodied betrayal in such a visceral way as to challenge even Somers, the Betrayer of Hope, himself!
But this shall all change, dear children. Because God, in His infinite care and love, has brought me to the side of the Good Doctor this week. He has delivered the greatest weapon against the terrible betrayal of both Somers and Vaughn that there could ever be. I shall take the hearts of the betrayers and crush them. I shall break them, both in body and spirit, and make them beg for forgiveness of their sins. And if not, if they do not change their ways and ask to be bathed in His light, then I shall destroy them utterly. As Somers is to Judas, he shall be hanged with his pieces of silver jammed in his mouth. As Vaughn is Cain, forevermore an outcast, a wandering fugitive.
For I am the Queen of Red.
Long live th-
“YOU ARE NOT MY QUEEN!”
The crowd froze in shock as the words ripped through the open air. Gasps were heard as head turned and a small circle formed around a lone body, the space clearing as to not be caught in blasphemy. From her space atop the spire, the Queen of Red could see the figure, a man with shaggy hair and a bearded face, standing tall and firm as he was given more and more room. She glared at him with sheer malice coursing through her but as soon as she opened her mouth to speak, his blasphemy continued.
“YOU ARE A FALSE QUEEN! THE REAL QUEEN IS THAT OF BLOOD! THE REAL QUEEN IS OF THE REFORMATION!”
The Queen seethed at those words, nearly recoiled in disgust at them. Blood. Reformation. That meant he-
“I STAND WITH SARAH!”
The intake of breath among the denizens was both audible and palpable; the sound hurt her ears and it felt as if their shock had stolen the breath from her. While most within the compound were happy to see her step-daughter ousted and the Queen step in to fulfil their Lord’s message, there was an undertow of support for the wretched child and her ideas of reformation. And it was no coincidence that someone would speak so brazenly about it when all three of her daughters were due for a military parade the next day. Indeed, with Sarah, Kenzi, and Angie in town tomorrow, there was little chance this was spur-of-the-moment..
“I challenge you to a wrestling match.”
It it was quiet before, the square was now a song played for a room for the deaf. She could hear the breathing of the man down below. She could hear rustling of leaves from a mile away. The highest order of things within the compound had always been wrestling. A civil issue with a fellow denizen? Wrestle. Looking to gain rank within the guard? Wrestle. Want a better deal on a bartered good? Wrestle.
“The match shall take place at da-”
“No.”
She felt bad for cutting off her crier, Richard Vaughn, in such a gruff way, but this was not the time for civility or formality. There would be no grace period for preparation and prayer. No time to study your opponent and work out a strategy. No time to let this virus, this rot, fester. Lance the boil now before the foot was lost.
“We wrestle now.”
The square burst into activity as she made her way down the steps of the spire. The crowd parted even more than before, the circle around the infidel growing, until what amounted to a decent space to wrestle was clear. Guards surrounded the man and stripped him of his clothes, leaving him in nothing but his undershorts. He was lean and decently muscled, as many within the compound were. He was young, perhaps not even into his twenties, and all his age had been trained since children to grapple, throw, and subdue.
Stopping before the clearing, the Queen held out her arms for handmaidens to undress her. Men and women alike averted her eyes, but she cared naught for their need of prudency. Wrestling was different, BATTLE was different, and she did not let them stop undressing her until she too was down to her undergarments. When prepared, she walked right up to the man, raising her head to look at him, not allowing even the thought of being intimidated by his size register on her mind.
In her perefery, she could see the gathered crowd part as three people walked forward. Each wore robes of white which hung down to the floor, swaying and swishing with every stride. Every wrestling match, regardless of the reason, was officiated by a clergyman of the Path, but as the woman in the back reminded everyone, only the High Priestess herself could officiate a match which included anyone with the name of Lacklan. Elaine Martin, a pretty woman past her 40’s, had been with her late husband since near the beginning, and the face of his Church since its founding. The symbol around her neck, that of a cross within a golden sunburst, had been the first ever fashion for the Path of the Light.
The Queen did not wait for the priestess to signal the start of the match. Much like any of her professional fights, she leapt at the interloper with all of her might, as if a feral beast broken free of its bond. The upstart was capable, as any Lacklanlander would be, but he would not be prepared for the Queen who had held several titles in her short career. She came with claws bared, nails ripping and tearing, fingers looking to gouge eyes. Rules were strickly enforced in matches, but the Queen fought differently than everyone. She was the Champion of Chaos, His will on Earth to use chaos to create order. So that is what she did.
He was strong. He was tall. But so was every man she fought. Necron, the Harvester himself, had fallen to her before, and would again. Somers was bigger than her. Zane. Ingalls. And so she fought how she must fight. She wrenched his arm. She bit his shoulder. She drove her knee into his groin. And before long, sooner than the crowd could hope, she had his back and her arms around his neck. He put his fingers under her arm, tried to release the pressure of the rear naked choke, but he had little success. His eyes started to gloss over, the lights going out, as the scars running up and down her bare arms glistened with sweat in the soft Maine sunlight. He struggled in her grasp but then tapped his hands on her arms, submitting the match. But she was not done.
Pierce the boil.
One more squeeze on the artery, and he fell limply in her grasp. Elaine Martin raised her hand and pointed at the Queen, victory announced, and a great cheer arose from the crowd. But the Queen’s ears were deaf to the applause.
Pierce the boil before you lose the foot.
She shifted her arms. One hand on the unconscious boy’s chin. The other wrapped in his hair. And with a violent twist as a wordless scream split the air, she wrenched her arms in either direction. The resulting CRACK! from his neck as his head twisted about silenced the crowd, and his body falling to the floor in a heap, as if his bones had been pulled from his skin, ended the silence with a gasp of disgust. She stared down at him, her chest breathing heavily, the blood in her veins feeling as if on fire.
Pierce the boil.
She looked up at the crowd. A sea of faces with expressions both shocked and awed. They had not seen the ruler in a match in several years, not since before her husband had become ill when she was locked away. They had not seen a display of doctrine this viril in years.
Before you lose the foot.
“String him to the Jew’s Cross.”
A cheer arose from the crowd as the proclamation was made. There had not been a good stoning in ages, and everyone deserved a reminder of how things worked here. Let her children come tomorrow with dreams of usurping her with their titles. Let them play their hand at betrayal.
She would pierce the boil.
~~fin~~
x2